


Loss

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, M/M, Memory Alteration, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: Of a friend; of a lover; of a life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 1





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue is taken from BBC's "Sherlock."

He feels lost.

They are sitting in a nice restaurant (or so he's been told) called the Landmark. This is surprising in that generally, Sherlock isn't allowed to enter posh places - on account of the fact that he normally looks like a junkie. Tonight, however, Mycroft has forced him to clean up: gotten him shaved and bought him new clothes and retrieved his old coat from storage, and is now presenting him to the world for the first time in two years.

The host had let them in without question and brought them to their seats.

It also helps that Mycroft has apparently had this table reserved for several months in advanced. He'd planned Sherlock's escape to a tee as always, accounting for every last-minute detail. The one thing Sherlock cannot wrap his head around, however, is why they have gone out to eat in the first place.

He had wanted to go back to Baker Street and resume his old life. Mrs. Hudson, lazy creature of habit, has surely left everything in his flat exactly the way it was. She will of course claim that it was only out of sentimentality or nostalgia, but he knows her better than that.

So he isn't exactly sure what he's doing at the Landmark. The only plausible theory he can come up with is that Mycroft is attempting to win him over - to bribe him, to use this night out as leverage for a new case. That, or his brother thinks that after two years away from the public eye, he needs to brush up on his observational skills. Sherlock is too busy trying to figure out what he's doing here, however, to notice any of the people around him.

"May I take your orders, messieurs?" their waiter asks in a decidedly fake accent, pulling Sherlock from his reverie.

Mycroft, obviously guessing at Sherlock's plan to abstain from eating, sends him a look that in their earlier years had meant _you'd better do what you're told, or I'll tell Mum and Dad and they'll be cross_. He reluctantly orders some sort of soup, which looks to be the most expensive item on the menu, and hastily hands the laminated card stock back to their server.

"Aren't you going to ask?" his brother asks after a few strange moments of silence.

Sherlock fiddles with the annoying cuffs of his suit and sighs. "Ask about what?"

Mycroft blinks in a moment of genuine surprise. "Why, about _him_ , of course. I must admit, I was a little shocked that you didn't comment on his presence immediately - I was sure you'd thank me for arranging for him to be here tonight -"

"Who exactly is this?"

His brother's expression is inscrutable. "Sherlock, you can't possibly have..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, expecting Mycroft to take great pleasure in hearing those words. But his face doesn't waver: he keeps staring at Sherlock like he's just said something incredibly obscene. Perhaps he has; who is he to know what is and isn't socially acceptable to say, after two years away from modern civilization? The whole thing is very unnerving. He takes a sip of water to distract himself, and thinks about how more than anything, he wants to go home.

"Sherlock, you aren't serious?" Mycroft presses on. He phrases it like a statement rather than a question. "You mean you didn't notice him when we walked past his table?"

"I've no clue who you're trying to manipulate me into meeting, Mycroft. I haven't the energy to meet one of your _colleagues_ tonight."

The waiter returns and sets their dishes in front of them, effectively silencing Mycroft. His brother looks at him with an irked expression, and then suddenly rises from his chair.

Sherlock tucks in.

He hasn't felt full in months. He'd been given just enough to survive on, and for two years, it was enough. Hunger he could subdue; exhaustion he could ignore; stress he could tolerate. There was always a funny feeling in his chest, though, that he could only suppress by throwing himself into his work with a wretched, unbridled passion. Little by little, he chipped away at what was left of Moriarty's nonsensical network, making connections and noticing patterns between the spies that remained by forcing himself to think like them.

It was enough to drive one mad.

Slowly, he began to forget about his previous life: the flat that remained untouched on Baker Street; the bumbling detectives of the Yard; the constant prodding from his brother to solve this case or that. Destroying one man's work utterly consumed him - that is, until Mycroft tracked him down in the middle of Siberia and told him enough was enough. _There is no more work to be done,_ he had said; _come back to London and eat from my palm until the day you die. Who knows? Maybe I'll snag you a knighthood if you behave._

And so he had come, and now he sits opposite an empty chair.

His considerably concerned government agent of a brother reappears a few moments after Sherlock has finished his consommé, a confused-looking man in tow.

Sherlock observes him with a mix of boredom and slight intrigue. Nothing about him seems familiar; he looks tired and aged, likely due to the funny mustache he's grown that doesn't seem to suit his face. He holds himself in a rigid manner that clearly says 'retired soldier,' and the slight trembling of his hands indicates that he suffers from some sort of trauma. Probably PTSD, if he actually is a military man - but no, it has to be something else, judging by his change of expression when he lays eyes on Sherlock.

He looks the stranger square in the face. His eyes (of a fascinatingly indeterminate color) read disbelief, and panic, and _oh, god, why today?_ After a few moments, he realizes the man has recognized him - which is strange, considering Sherlock has never seen him before in his life.

Something in the far reaches of his mind reminds him that it is considered polite to speak to people you are being introduced to for the first time, so he offers, "Hello, are you a friend of Mycroft's? I don't believe we've met."

Mycroft swears softly for reasons Sherlock cannot even begin to guess at.

"What are you _talking_ about, you utter prat?" the stranger chokes, with both great difficulty and such sudden familiarity that it makes Sherlock's skin prickle uncomfortably. Every part of his body is screaming danger, telling him to get out, to flee - but something compels him to stay. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of the situation, he will tell himself later (he always _has_ liked a mystery).

"I don't mean to be rude, but I've no clue who you are," he says.

"Stop pretending, Sherlock, it isn't funny," Mycroft snaps. "Haven't you upset the poor man enough already?"

"Well, you're the one who brought us here," Sherlock protests. "Send him away if you must; it's hardly my fault."

"Sherlock - this is _John_ , for god's sake - what are you - ?"

"Ah, John Evans, from uni?" This is decidedly not John Evans - the face and eyes belong to another man, and he most certainly would've recognized him at first sight - but his brain latches onto this one piece of information and clings to it like a shipwrecked man to driftwood. He feels he's missed something terribly important. "You've changed, haven't you? Not necessarily for the better - that mustache is rather dreadful, isn't it - but perhaps you're a bit less stuck up than you used to be -"

 _"Jesus,"_ says John, in a manner very unlike the Catholic, straightedge John Evans Sherlock remembers. This John is clutching the back of Mycroft's chair for support, looking about to collapse, and Sherlock can't help but pity him.

"Would you like some water?" he offers halfheartedly. He isn't quite sure what to do. He doesn't remember how he used to handle this sort of thing back when he was a normal person.

For some reason, his hands are shaking.

"I'm going to need something stronger than that," John manages. His face is very pale, and his eyes are screwed shut. It seems as if he is in intense pain.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, hating how whiny and vulnerable his voice sounds, "Mycroft, help him, he's ill or something."

"This was a terrible idea," Mycroft is muttering to himself, paying no mind to the situation at hand, "absolutely dreadful..."

"Here," Sherlock says to John. He is very frustrated that no one will tell him what is going on. "Here, John, come with me - perhaps some air will do you good -"

In a strange, uncharacteristic fashion, he grips John's shoulders and helps him out of the restaurant, waving away several onlookers and waitstaff as they go. Someone else calls out to him as they walk down the last row of tables - long, prettily-painted nails scrabble at his sleeve - but he pushes past and concentrates on assisting John. The man in question is breathing shallowly, his pulse elevated; for a moment, Sherlock is afraid he's having a heart attack, but a moment's touch to the jugular tells him there is no immediate danger.

"Here we are," he says once they've passed through the doors. "Is that better? A-are you alright? I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"No, Sherlock," John says weakly. The sound of his own name on this other man's lips makes Sherlock feel indescribably strange. "I'll never... god, are you even _real_? Am I dreaming again?"

Suddenly, John's hands are framing Sherlock's face, and every ounce of him wants to recoil, to run away, to curl up in a ball on the pavement and sob - but for some reason, he reaches up and clasps the other man's fingers with his own. He tells himself it's just to comfort him, to offer this man the human contact he so obviously, desperately needs (but a little voice in the back of his mind tells him it's because he somehow _knows_ John, despite everything his instincts are saying).

"Listen," he says after a few moments of listening to John's labored breathing. "Listen, I... I don't know who you are, but -"

"This can't be real," John murmurs, his eyes sliding shut as he leans his forehead against Sherlock's, their faces uncomfortably close. "Please, please tell me you're really here. Tell me you're alive and not dead, and that you never left me, never jumped, never called me from the roof and left your _bloody_ note in my head, never bled out on the pavement and -"

Sherlock wrenches himself away, wishing he had a gun.

* * *

John watches Sherlock disappear into the darkness of London just as suddenly as he'd reappeared.

He pushes Mary away; gets a cab home without her and tries to shake off the feeling that the whole thing had been a dream.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" he calls to the next room, once the madness has passed and his landlady has settled down and stopped crying.

"Yes, dear?" comes the response. She appears at the sitting room doorway, her mouth upturned in an incessant, brilliant smile.

"Who's been up here recently?"

"Oh, just John, you know," she says, as if that immediately explains everything. "Came 'round for the first time in two years a few days back, and I let him up to look at the place. He really hasn't been himself since it happened, you know."

Sherlock doesn't respond; rather, he turns on his heel and immediately makes for the spare bedroom.

He swears it was unoccupied the entire time he lived here, but upon opening the door, he realizes the presence of another person in the flat has completely slipped his memory. This bedroom has unquestionably been lived in: the bed has been made with sheets of a rather odious color he never would've chosen himself, and although the surfaces of the desk and dresser are bare, when he opens the drawers, he finds further proof that he had a roommate.

He takes a tan-colored, cable-knit jumper from one of the bottom drawers, and is suddenly overcome by emotion he cannot explain, unbidden tears leaking from his eyes. It smells of musk, and lavender, and undeniably of John.

* * *

"So you mean he _deleted_ me? Just like he deleted the fact that the earth revolves around the sun? I wasn't important enough for him to remember?"

Mycroft leans back in his chair and regards the pen in his hand with disinterest. "Not quite," he says, a little disconsolately. "It seems to me he's repressed you, in a manner of speaking."

"And why the hell would he do that?" John demands.

The other man regards him with a bemused smirk that does not suit his pointed face. "Isn't it _obvious_?" he says in that terribly Holmesian tone that reminds John so much of Sherlock.

"You'll have to spell it out for me."

"Why, it's because he cared for you," Mycroft informs him, as if this is old news.

"Of course he - 'course he bloody _cares_ for me, are you daft?" he snarls, throwing the newspaper he's been holding down onto Mycroft's desk and pointing at the front page. "Someone snapped a bloody photo of us in front of that restaurant, a photo of us damn near -"

He shuts up, noticing Mycroft's expression. "A photo of you 'damn near' on top of each other?" the older brother finishes, flipping to the fifth page so he can skim through the whole story. "And a photo of you 'damn near' pushing your girlfriend into oncoming traffic as you tried to follow Sherlock."

"You might as well say it."

"Say what?"

John sends him a look that's damn near venomous.

"Oh," Mycroft says in pretend realization, "oh, say that she's your beard. Of course."

He throws his hands up in frustration and makes to leave, but Mycroft continues: "You aren't to blame, of course. You couldn't cope, so you found someone else to project your sorrows onto. It's quite endearingly human. Sherlock couldn't cope, either, so he simply repressed every memory of you."

"How does he explain the past three years?" John asks indignantly. "How does he explain the fame, the faked suicide, leaving me behind - ?"

"He's Sherlock. I'm sure he came up with something."

"Is that all you have to say about this?" John says, pacing back and forth. "You aren't even going to apologize for springing him on me after all this time?"

"I truly am sorry for that," Mycroft says quietly. "I did not anticipate the possibility that your reaction to seeing him again would be anything less than happy."

"Of course I - _Christ_ , Mycroft," he wheezes, panic pooling in his chest, "you don't think I was _happy_ to -"

He feels the film of tears over his eyes and clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from openly sobbing, but it's no use.

"John, I'm very, very sorry."

He shakily catches his breath, opens his eyes, and says, "So am I."

* * *

How odd it is, to roam the streets again without fear of being killed - and with Molly Hooper, paradigm of ordinariness, at his side.

It's only natural for her to accompany him on his cases. She'd been so helpful after the fall, and he feels he needs to thank her in some way. He can't quite remember, but it seems like she used to come with him before, too - or had it been someone else?

He needs the help. Adjusting back to his old life is a slow process, and having an ordinary, outside perspective on cases helps him acclimate more quickly (or so he tells himself).

It's different from before, though. She keeps mentioning that man, John, as if Sherlock ought to know him - as if he's some sort of public figure, some household name that everyone is aware of. He supposes that he probably _should_ know him, seeing as how they were apparently roommates, but he still cannot get himself to remember anything about what their life had been like together. Perhaps he's made the whole thing up in his head; perhaps it was something he dreamed in his Mind Palace, that has slipped into his conscious world unbeknownst to him.

It seems as though Molly is replacing John in some way, but he ignores this, and whiles away the monotonous minutes with her.

* * *

Work is horrendous.

Mary doesn't speak to him much, but he can't really blame her.

* * *

For some reason, John's voice keeps ringing in his head.

Lestrade questions the stranger's whereabouts, too, which is only further proof that John used to accompany him on his cases.

Everyone seems to know about him - everyone except Sherlock, of course.

He feels the best thing to do is to pretend he knows exactly who this John character is, so as not to cause any alarm for those who may be helpful with his deductions. When Lestrade asks him if John will be coming on any more cases, he says with nonchalance, "He's not really in the picture anymore."

And that would've been convincing enough if he hadn't told the John in his head to shut up almost immediately after that.

* * *

_Oscillation on the pavement always means a love affair,_ Sherlock's voice tells him haughtily as he stops in front of 221B and sighs.

* * *

Initially, he hadn't questioned the fact that Mary Morstan knows how to read skip code.

She'd turned up on his doorstep in need of aid, and after vaguely recognizing her as the woman who'd tried to stop him and John in the restaurant (the name of which he'd already deleted), he decided to help her.

And then - he still isn't quite sure how, adrenaline still clouding his brain - they'd ended up outside a church, and the bonfire was blazing, and he was screaming John's name as if it were the only word he knew, screaming for the stranger with the ferocity of a lover, diving into the fire - never mind the flames licking at the hem of his coat, never mind the slight burning sensation - pulling on the dead weight, heaving John away, as far away as possible...

Now he sits in his flat, attempting to listen to his mother prattle on about the lottery ticket she's lost without success. It's difficult to pay attention to an already-boring topic of conversation when there are much more pressing matters at hand.

Such as: what had possessed him to drag that man out from beneath the pyre as if he were all that mattered in the world?

And how on earth did Mary know how to recognize, let alone read, a skip code?

As if Sherlock's thoughts have summoned him into existence, John Watson suddenly enters the flat as if he owns the place. Sherlock shoos his parents out like an awkward teenager hoping to avoid embarrassment.

John has shaved, and Sherlock begrudgingly admits to himself that he likes it.

Some useless words are exchanged and omitted from memory, and then John sits down in what is evidently _his_ chair, and Sherlock says, "I've been wondering about that."

"About what?"

He clears his throat, swallows heavily. "Why there's two of everything. Here. In my flat."

John shuts his eyes for a moment. "I - I didn't... When you..."

Sherlock stares at him expectantly, face expressionless. He seems to be speaking with great difficulty.

"I'm sorry," he says, then starts again. "When you... when you _died_ , when you faked your death, and left, I couldn't... I couldn't come back here. I left everything."

"Yes, that's the part I can't seem to remember."

"What, faking your own death? Surely you -"

"No, not that," he says, vexed. "I can't remember you. Living with you, that is. I know it happened, but I don't remember any of it. I don't know you at all."

John smiles at him like the sun. For reasons Sherlock cannot ascertain, his heart flutters in his chest at the sight. "That's not true," he says, and Sherlock can tell he's teasing somewhat.

"Fine," he says, his own lips curving upwards despite himself. "I know you like jumpers, and coffee, and you use lavender soap. I know your favorite color is gray. And I know that you like James Bond."

"And?"

 _"And,"_ he continues, "I know you were an army doctor, and you were sent home following an injury from either Afghanistan or Iraq. I know you've got a brother who you don't approve of - possibly because he's an alcoholic, but more likely because he walked out on his wife. And I know that you used to visit a therapist who treated you for your PTSD, and who thought, correctly, that your limp was psychosomatic."

John sucks in a shaky breath. "That's... almost word-for-word what you said to me when we first met four years ago," he says quietly.

The detective blinks.

"Sherlock," John says tenderly, with a deep intimacy Sherlock cannot even fathom. "I know you don't right now, but please believe me when I say you know me better than anyone else on this earth. _I_ know _you_ better than anyone else." He gets up from his armchair and steps forward, taking Sherlock's hand tentatively in his own. "Mycroft told me that you sort of, er, repressed your memories of me, because - well, because it was too painful for you when you left. But I know they're still in there."

Tears prickle, again unsolicited, at the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He cannot bring himself to say anything except John's name.

"We'll get through this," John says in a choked, hushed voice. Sherlock realizes that he is crying, too. "We'll get you back. I promise you."

Sherlock reaches out, because it seems the natural thing to do; cups John's cheek in the palm of his hand, watches John melt into his touch.

"Will you come on a case with me?" he says softly, and feels rather than sees John nod his reply.

* * *

"I'm still waiting," he says to Sherlock at the party - after the bomb, after Moran, after everything was almost lost and then miraculously saved.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hums in response, trying to loop his scarf about his neck. John feels overcome with affection; he has watched him tie that very scarf to protect against the cold countless times. He sees Sherlock struggle with the fabric and moves forward, taking the detective's sly hands in his own and -

"You're shaking," he says gently. "What's wrong?"

"I..." Sherlock shudders, closes his eyes. "They tried to _kill you_ , John -"

"Oh," John says, "oh, Sherlock."

He takes the man he loves in his arms and cradles his head with one hand, letting him lean against his shoulder and envelope John with his warmth.

He doesn't know why Sherlock is so distraught if he doesn't remember him, claims not to know him - but perhaps there isn't a good explanation for it. Maybe Sherlock remembers him only subconsciously, and has held onto the connection they shared rather than the concrete memories themselves.

John holds him nonetheless, and pretends not to notice when Mary walks past the doorway and glares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode transcription sources are as follows:  
> 
> 
>   * ["A Study in Pink"](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html)
>   * ["The Empty Hearse"](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64895.html)
> 


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you enjoy my writing!


End file.
